Hidden
by Polly Lynn
Summary: Missing scene for The Limey concerning the incompatibility of a certain dress and a certain scar.


Title: Hidden

WC: 2409

Rating: K+

Genre: Angst/Romance/Friendship

Spoilers: Vague for Rise, Cops & Robbers; substantive for The Limey.

A/N: Above and beyond breaking my shipper heart, several things about The Limey bugged me. (For example, the pouch number changing in Act V, after we'd gotten several good looks at it.) And then there's the dress. No way that dress is on the table with the scar we saw in "Kill Shot." Castle needs to see for show bible purposes. Totally.

* * *

"Sure. If you want to do it the easy way."

Castle is well past trying to save face with Ryan and Esposito. He can't spare even a moment to regret the collapse of his madcap plan.

She is a tall, black column. Leaving. Now he can barely see the sharp angles of her shoulder blades above that soft expanse of night. She is just about to turn the corner and wink out of sight. And suddenly, he is moving.

He hears the pity (and excitement—Ryan is a kindred spirit and a friend) in Ryan's voice, "A gymnast in a duffle bag, Castle? Really?"

He hears, but doesn't really register it. He is moving. He has to see. Even if it makes him look like a kite on a string, or worse—and he knows it's worse—he has to see.

The elevator is not an option. He can't risk enclosed spaces with her. With him. And anyway, it's gone. She's gone. But he is still moving.

He barrels through the door and into the stairway. Blindly navigates each step by the sharp rap of his feet on corrugated metal. He half falls down the last flight and spills out into the empty lobby.

* * *

Kate enjoys the memory of the look on Castle's face right up to the the moment the elevator door bumps shut. She smooths her hands over her velvet-clad hips and spends the ride down trying to recapture that fierce feeling. Gladness or something like it.

She realizes quite a while after the fact that Hunt is being nice. Polite conversation mixed with just enough shop talk that things aren't weird.

She pivots toward him and offers a smile. It's too much, if the way he edges back against the elevator is any indication.

It doesn't matter. The doors slide open. Long strides take her across the lobby, a jet black spray of fabric fanning out behind her.

Hunt makes it to the glass doors before her. His hand falls away in the act of pushing the door open and gesturing her through. He probably doesn't deserve the look of pinched irritation she knows she's giving him.

He mutters something about a car. Another entrance. A phone call. Kate nods sharply and he's gone.

She is absolutely still. For the space of a breath she has no recollection of where she is or what she was doing. Suddenly the moment rushes in at her. It's all too much. The air of the precinct lobby is heavy with echoes, even at this time of day.

The uniform behind the desk uncaps a thermos and slops something into a cup. He watches her curiously as steam curls up and away from the liquid. A plainclothes cop and his hand-cuffed perp move briskly to the elevators, eyes on her until the last possible second.

The sound of a door banging open galvanizes her. She propels herself out onto the street.

* * *

Castle casts a desperate glance toward the elevators.

_Gone. _How can she be gone? He has to _see_. He swallows hard. Scours a hand through his hair.

Behind the desk, Sadowski blows into his coffee and angles his head just slightly toward the doors. Castle's gaze follows the gesture. Lands on her.

His heart stops. Everything stops. In a painful, leaden instant, he wonders if he might die there, on the spot. If that might be better than the alternative.

She stands in a pool of gritty sodium light. Alone. The wind whips around her, molds the skirt of that dress tight to her legs. Even through the glass, he can see the gooseflesh skating over her shoulders. A silk wrap, forgotten and probably ruined, bunched in one hand.

He wants, more than anything to step up behind her, closer than he should, and ease the fabric out of her hand. Shake it out and drape it around her with a flourish. Drop a word low in her ear. Find the hairpin that's already sliding free of her heavy twist of hair and tuck it safely back home.

A harsh, buzzing sound drags Castle's attention back toward the elevator Preissler starts guiltily and pulls his head and shoulders back into the car, jerking a man in handcuffs along with him. Like a sight gag. The doors slide closed and the lobby comes to life once more.

And Castle is moving. He has to _see. _

* * *

Kate shivers as the wind howls down the street like it's holding a grudge. _Stupid_. Who knows how long it will be before Hunt comes back. Did he say he was coming back? Or was she supposed to . . . she wasn't listening.

She turns halfway back toward the precinct doors and stops. Freezing or not, she can't make herself go back in. She's had enough over the last week or so. Enough conversations that die suddenly as she walks into the break room. Enough looks, some smug, some sympathetic. All of them knowing. What, exactly, she's not sure. And that's the problem.

_Stupid, _she thinks again. _Standing out here freezing without even _. . . her fingers suddenly remind her about the thing they've been clenched around since she called up the will to turn away from Castle. She eases open her fist. Scowls down at the hopelessly wrinkled fabric.

Another gust of wind tears at her hair. Snaps the shawl taut between her hands. She sighs and lets one go, ducking under it as it streams upward. She turns to catch it in her free hand and suddenly he is there.

* * *

His hand falls short of the door. He takes a step back. She looks . . . forsaken. He wants to go to her. Hates himself for wanting it. For the first time he wonders why: Why does he need to see? What does it matter?

A week ago, he would have taken it as a sign. Fair skin and delicate bones on display with a message for his eyes only. About walls and the kinds of things she wants. The things she's working towards. While he waits. Helps when he can. (Hopes he's helping.) While he is oh so careful with her.

But now he knows better. Knows his vivid imagination betrayed him. Not for the first time.

She shivers again. He flattens his palm against the cold glass. For a fraction of a second he sees a possibility. Something on the other side of this fury. When he'll remember all the things he wants for her, not just the things he can't have. He hesitates and the pain flares again, bright and hot.

But he holds that moment in his mind. _That_ is why he needs to see.

He is moving.

* * *

He came after her. The relief is overwhelming. She feels the smile spreading over her face. The smile he's only seen once before. She vows then and there to show it to him more often. She closes her eyes a moment and breathes. Sees herself stepping into his arms.

She moves toward him, determined to make good on the image in her mind. She lifts her eyes to his. The smile evaporates.

He's looking at her. Not like earlier. There's no heat to it. Nothing unguarded and wanting. Nothing familiar at all.

She snatches the end of the shawl out of the air and jerks it over her shoulders, crossing her arms over her breasts.

"Don't," his voice is flat. He gestures to the fabric she's pulled tight across her. Hiding.

"I'm cold, Castle," she says faintly.

He tugs on his lapels. Crosses his arms over his chest, mirroring her.

"You would be. In that dress." No humor. No teasing. Not even the razor's edge of anger he's let slip once or twice lately.

She makes a noise, casting about for a response. She tries to get some kind of a read off him, but he's giving her nothing.

He goes on before she can think of anything to say, "Wouldn't have thought you could pull it off."

She cocks her head. Did he just . . .?

"The dress," he confirms. He cooly meets her eyes.

But not for long. He's studying her. Parts of her. His eyes flick from her white-knuckled grip on the ends of the shawl to the hairpin just behind her left ear. She can feel it making a bid for freedom. Without thinking, she reaches for it with one hand, and the shawl unfurls leaving her shoulders bare again.

Castle leans toward her, his movements quick and totally unfamiliar.

Kate's hand diverts from the hair pin to come up between them. Not quite a block.

He inhales sharply and steps back. One hand flickers in the barest apology.

"Castle?"

"The scar," he clears his throat.

He was going to say something else. She's sure of it.

He doesn't give her a chance to ask. "Is it gone?"

"Gone?" Her fingers brush against her sternum. The ache is still there. Sharper now. "No. . . it's . . . better."

Something changes in his face, then. She thinks she sees a glimpse of him. _Her _Castle_._

She rushes on, "Better. And the rest . . . architecture and concealer."

It's a good line, she thinks. The kind of thing she's said to him, he's said to her, a thousand times. Punctuated with a knowing smile or a brief touch.

But her Castle is gone again. She wants to stamp her foot. Slap him. Shake him by the shoulders and demand to know why.

One corner of his mouth jerks up, "It's amazing. All the things you can hide behind."

Kate's eyes go wide. She pulls her chin in and stares hard at the ground. Fights back sudden tears. In all the time she's known him — _known_ him— he's been so many things: Childish, surprisingly wise, annoying, playful, stubborn, adoring, teasing. He's never been _mean_. She feels like a sullen teenager, but there's no other word for it.

He turns on his heel and leaves her.

* * *

Castle makes a mistake almost immediately. It's just that he's so used to stealing glances at her face. Carrying on the conversation beneath the surface. The conversation he _thought_ they were having. He has to remember that. But it's damned near impossible when she's . . .

How can she do it? Knowing what she knows. How can she use that smile on him, not once but twice?

Searing embarrassment saves him. He writhes inwardly, thinking how close he came to acting it out all over again. A scene she wants no part of. Will _never_ want any part of. He makes a mental note to thank his mother for her impeccable timing that day in the bank.

He snatches one last look at her face. The smile is well and truly gone. She looks . . . so many things: Hurt, confused. He wants to tell her he knows. He _knows_.

But he's only here to see.

She gotten the wrap under control, finally.

Anger flares in him. He just wants to _see_. Can't she even give him that?

"Don't."

It takes him a moment before he realizes that he's said it out loud.

"I'm cold, Castle."

He's halfway to shrugging off his jacket and offering it to her before the absurdity of it strikes him. He stuffs his hands into his armpits before they can do anything else stupid.

"You would be. In that dress."

He knows that look. Seen her use it on suspects a hundred times. She's digging. And he's determined to give her nothing, "Wouldn't have thought you could pull it off."

Too much. She doesn't quite know what this is about, but he's given her too much. No way out but through now.

"The dress." He looks her in the eye, childishly proud that he can. For a second, anyway.

He needs to see. He reminds himself that this is what it's about.

He searches for an opening. The wrap is a stark horizontal interrupted by the white knot of her fingers.

The wind kicks up again and he catches a break. The frail twist of metal is no match for the gust and the glossy weight of her hair. One hand abandons its post. The black silk peels away.

He leans in, eager to end this. And it's not like he's leering. He just needs to see.

From the corner of his eye, he sees her lips part, and then her palm is there. Ready to push him back.

She's afraid of him. The certainty of that almost knocks him down. He wants to beg her forgiveness. He takes a step back.

"Castle?"

He thinks that he must have lost his mind some time ago, because he's still hearing it. The conversation beneath the conversation. A promise. A plea for reassurance. All in the two syllables of his name. He wants to tell her again. Tell her everything.

"The scar." Self-preservation wins out at the last second, "Is it gone?"

"Gone?"

Pain flashes in her eyes. He tells himself he's glad. That he doesn't want to lay his hand on top of hers and sooth it away.

"No. . . it's . . . better."

Her eyes dart to the side. Avoiding. And then she drags them back to his. Let's him see what this is costing her. Everything in him strains toward her.

"Better. And the rest . . . architecture and concealer."

He can't believe it. Cannot _believe_ she'd . . .

It all bubbles up at once. Every conversation he's memorized. Every carefully chosen word he's held on to in the hardest moments. Every single one looks different now. _Architecture. _

How many times has she made a joke of it? Has she been taunting him with it all along? Has he really been _that_ stupid?

He's angry. Oh he is _angry_, "It's amazing. All the things you can hide behind."

He hits his mark. He wants to enjoy it.

But then her shoulders hitch. She dips her head. Streetlight sparks her unshed tears to gold for half a second.

He has to stop doing this. He's seen it. He has his answers. He turns and takes a step. Then two. He makes it two doors down before he turns back. He does not — does _not_ — take a step closer. A compromise.

"Becket," he calls to her.

She raises her head. Meets his eyes. The tears hold steady, not falling.

"Kate." Another compromise, "I'm glad it's better. Or I will be."

He turns again. Ducks his head into his collar against the wind and goes. He is moving.


End file.
